The meeting went just as Rufus expected. First, he preached the virtues of venture capitalism. Then, for the windup, he quoted Dante’s Virgil. “Fame is not for the man who lies under covers and sits on feathers; and those who use up their lives without fame leave as little trace of themselves in the world as smoke does in the air or foam in water. So, rise up and master your exhaustion with the spirit, which wins every battle…. You must ascend a higher ladder still…If you understand, act to your advantage.”He paused for theatrical impact, then added, “You are acting now to your advantage.”
The senior members of The Burning Bush Investment Club broke into cheers and voted unanimously to pay one million dollars to purchase the five-hundred-acre farm owned by the C. Lampkin Corporation. Rufus smiled. The fools, he thought. It was time to mingle and chat cheerfully with those he had so easily deceived.
Their inquiries were cursory, dwelling on the technicalities of deed transfer and switchgrass planting. Neville suggested that The Burning Bush Investment Club should incorporate. Others desired to visit the farm. In due time, Bideau told them. Some had done research and were eager to apply their recently acquired knowledge of switchgrass farming.
Rufus had champagne brought in for a toast. “To the members of The Martini Club, or should I say The Burning Bush Investment Club.”
Gerald Smyth broke in. “Before we drink, I once more request our noble clergyman, Rabbi Nathan Ginsberg, give the Jewish blessing over the wine.”
“I would be delighted,” Ginsberg responded. “I understand why a man with your history feels a need to call for as many blessings as he can. I have learned over the years that while people need to thank God, God does not need their thanks. His needs are beyond our comprehension.”
“Then why pray to him?” Rufus Bideau inquired.
“Praying is not to please God. Praying is for the joy and comfort it brings you. Besides, what is lost in praying to God? If there is no caring God, it doesn’t matter. If there is, maybe all those prayers will count for something. There really is nothing to lose.”
Ginsberg asked everyone to rise. They prayed together. The members downed their champagne and returned to their seats. Bideau refrained from drinking until everyone was back in their chairs. Then he took small, controlled sip to appear collegial.
Bideau had never met any of the members of The Martini Club, except for Brody Brady. He had assumed they would all be like Brady—shallow, one dimensional old men who had achieved just enough money and power to give them comfortable retirements and, perhaps, a small mention in The Washington Post obituary page when their time came. They had tired of golf and become gullible in their boredom.
To Bideau’s surprise, even Brady had turned out to be more than he had assumed. Yes, Brady had lost all the big gambles of his life. He was overmatched in marriage, and ended up divorced. He lacked the ruthlessness to be a true success in business. Even Brady’s body, while large in size, betrayed him with a bad heart. Brady should have taken his life or become a drunk like Caleb, Bideau thought. Instead, he chirps and dances and persuades people that all is well. He’s a fool, yet not a fool.
If Bideau had any capacity for sympathy, it would be for Brody Brady. But he had none. In the end, Brady would be fleeced like all the rest. After all, the sheep were there for the wolves. It was in the nature of things.
Gerald Smyth, on the other hand, was something else. He remained a wolf. Bideau sensed a kindred blackness in him, but not so intense and dark as his. A conscience remained. Smyth had been touched by evil, but not fully embraced by it.
Then, there was the strange rabbi. He was clearly intelligent, yet there was something irritating about him.
“That quotation by Dante’s Virgil was, shall I say, interesting,” Ginsberg had said to him earlier in the night. “Virgil and Dante were deep in Christian Hell when the great poet made that little speech.”
“I felt it appropriate,” Bideau had replied weakly. At least the rabbi got the joke.
Ginsberg, Bideau recognized, was more than a peddler of liturgy and imagined beliefs. He talked about mankind’s need to have a God that not only established ethical and moral boundaries, but also forced human beings to make choices between right and wrong. Bideau wondered if Ginsberg might be good for some future conversations.